DON ANGIE

There's little I love more than when a place lives up to the hype, is worth the wait, and just makes you happy to be there.  This, in a nutshell, is Don Angie.  As a husband and wife team, I'm assuming the "Don" part of the name has the mafioso derivation meaning "Boss" and that that is Angie.  'Cause her husband and partner's name is Scott Tacinelli, so unless they have a very open marriage with some Don character floating around in the b.o.h., Ms. Rito wears the pants in the family, or at least got titular bragging rights.   Before partnering with Mr. Tacinelli, Ms. Rito worked at Major Food Group's  now-defunct Torrisi Italian Specialties and their wildly popular juggernaut, Carbone, influences which gleam in their new West Village speak-easy-esque little joint.  It has much of the cache expected of any Italian-American, tiled floors and flickering votive candles, but with a distinctly modern approach, and exquisitely executed.

The menu reads with a deceptive simplicity, but the food that arrives is exciting, novel, plucky, and never overwrought,-but definitely not "traditional".  We didn't know quite what to expect of a chrysanthemum salad, except I assured my tablemates it wouldn't be a bowl of dowdy flowers (chrysanthemums are typical presents given to the mourning in Italy, anyways, so it was safe to say we'd probably be getting greens, much like dandelions).  What arrived, however, appeared more like a pile of fluffy shredded cheese than a salad at all, but once the delicately flavored greens were lifted from underneath the voluminous shroud of practically aerated parmesan, it surrendered a bit of its bravado, and coalesced into the salad proportionately.  We split the salad among three with ample quantity for all, although I loved it so
 much I could've probably finished the whole thing solo.  No bread basket is provided, but the stuffed garlic flatbread is tasty as all get out, much like a crackling-thin white pizza gooey with cheese and stealthily filled with shreds of spinach, like an Italian grandma trying to get you to eat your vegetables.   But Don Angie is in no way strictly Italian: they don't shy away from such cosmopolitan ingredients as a burnt porcini dashi in their crudo, labne accompanying a Bbq Calamari or a tamarind glaze on the prosciutto e melone.   








Main courses offer the same inventiveness.  Chicken Scarpariello goes way off-script from the classic with a tender breast, sliced and blackened alongside spicy nubs of sausage, and draped with deep purple sprigs of basil and lusty Anaheim chiles sautéed with chewy, hammy capocollo.  Orata alla Griglia  was a firmer, meatier filet than usual, amply sided with fat orbs of Israeli couscous-style pasta rife with scungilli and clams, and lubricated with a zesty buttermilk sauce.  But don't think that the classic Italian pastas have been neglected: there is a signature lasagna

for two, cleverly furled into scrolls and wading in a saucy bath of cheesy tomato sauce.  Certainly untraditional, but also not cheap: it's $64, which breaks down to about ten dollars more than most of their other pasta offerings (although judging from Instagram it very well may be worth it).  Equally luscious, however, was the Garganelli Gigante, featuring chewy rolled-up noodles in a broken meatball ragu so heavily sauced it almost looked like a chunky bowl of tomato soup upon arrival.  Its flavor was lighter and brighter than expected, though, while remaining rustic and hearty and unequivocally

rib-sticking.  We weren't certain if
 the pasta courses would be primi-sized portions or main course, given their reasonable prices (in the low twenties aside from the lasagna), but while they're not behemoth Carmine's-esque family-sized platters, they are substantial and filling.   They certainly leave room for a side dish or two, as well, as neither options, neither the
Pastas nor the Mains, are conspicuously veg-heavy.  Thus, side dishes from the garden are
 recommended.  And even if you DIDN'T need to amplify your five-a-day the  broccoli is kind of a must-have, its deeply charred florets dusted in pecorino, their nuttiness enhanced with a flourish of toasted sesame seeds.  The Eggplant Agrodolce is just as good, the tangy sauce balancing the eggplant's earthiness, cooked down soft and studded with pignoli for nice crunchy moments.



We had eaten beyond the reasonable prospect for dessert, although a Lemon Sgroppino might've capped things off delicately enough.  Other options include a Black Cocoa Tiramisu with marsala caramel and mascarpone, and while I'm not a huge tiramisu fan, that one sounds worth returning for.  And return, I would.



103 Greenwich Ave,
tel (212) 889-8884

HORTUS

Hortus runs pretty short on horticultural, surprisingly enough.  Not that the preamble on their website states that that is their focus- it in fact makes no mention of a produce-based sensibility, but I could find no other decent justification for the name.  But the Hortus team is wildly proficient in other areas, so I'll forgive the misleading name.  Our proprietors helm from such lofty institutions as Blanca, Per Se and Daniel, so their capability wasn't in question.  Their roots are in South Korea, and the menu showcases Asian ingredients in a New American style, flirting with that "fusion" label that people so often want to avoid.  But here is works rather seamlessly, and to good end.

The restaurant is very attractive, although so far, sparsely populated (at least on the night which I visited). The bar was completely empty, and only one other table held guests when we arrived; several more showed up throughout the course of the night, but it still never reached more than 30% capacity.  Some of this might have to do with the enormous scaffolding obfuscating the beautiful entrance: they're not gonna get any drive-by traffic so long as that stays up, so hopefully it is very temporary.  Downstairs, a long bar extends the length of the room underneath glowing globe lights, and I imagine it
 will have a much livelier energy once a few souls fill the sculpted-seat wooden barstools, but seeing it empty as a dungeon was disheartening.  Up the stairs you pass a mezzanine area with cushioned lounge seating and a striking light fixture, what would look to be an appealing private room or an extension of the bar
 for quieter cocktails.  In the main dining room the modern design continues, featuring more glowy lighting, sleek glossy surfaces and elegant, silvery-blue velvet seats.


Cocktails are strictly sochu-based, but there is also sake and beer, and an extensive wine list, heavy on French but fairly balanced, as well in price, with bottles starting at $38 and only one champagne topping $200.  I love the heavy-duty golden "H" magnets that hold the menu pages together: I have to wonder how many of those will, as time goes on, go missing to dining guests with such names as Henry or Helga.  Those magnet-constrained pages include the "General" menu (aka "food), a fairly concise selection, although it curiously unfolds, after some raw bar options, with a cheese & charcuterie selection, which is probably not the first thing you'd
think of in a predominently Asian-ish restaurant.  After those, there are "To Start" and "To Shares",
although we ended up sharing the starters as well as the larger format plates.  It was difficult, however, to share the Charcoal Grilled Eggplant, both for its size (just a half a Japanese one) and because it was so good.   Meaty minced pork nuzzled into melty mozzarella atop the cushiony nightshade with a flounce of crispy pine-nut studded bread crumbs.  I perceive that a gluten-sensitive type might be challenged at Hortus: as many chefs have a sort of go-to additive in their repertoire, the chef here seems to  like to add
 bread crumbs, which I enjoyed immensely, but they're fairly ubiquitous.  They imparted a
 garlicky crunch to Asian Aglio e Olio, a tangle of thick pappardelle-style rice noodles with bean sprouts and bok choy, whose natural subtlety was vaulted into life with fiery bits of dried chiles slicked in oil beneath... none of which were mentioned on the menu, so the piquancy was an unexpected surprise.  There were some peanuts in there, too, adding another booby-trap for the allergy affected.



Moving ahead, there were four shareable entrees: Pork, Beef, Chicken or Seafood, from whence we chose the latter deuce.  Oh yes: vegetarians would be pretty screwed here, too.  There are a handful of dishes one could piece-meal together, but they are few and far between, and probably not very balanced.  But a pescatarian would be thrilled with the bowl of steamed cod, scallops, mussels, shrimp and tiny baby octopi that arrive in a handsome pewter bowl.  You can't see the broth in the photograph below, which they very well may have added tableside and I did not notice, but you cannot miss it once it's there, nor for its enticingly alluring perfume or it nourishing, complex flavor.  The seafood was fresher than fresh, tender and toothsome, but it was the broth that kept me hogging the bowl to my advantage.
 The Chicken was a little less exciting, but still skillfully presented.  It was faintly sweet, with a spiced glaze and a char-grilled pepper sliced on the side that imparted varying degrees of incendiarism, the maximum of which I happen to get at first-nibble, putting me out of commission for a spell, aided to great extent by a couple of the crunchy, multi-colored fried potatoes we
 ordered as a side dish to tamp the burn.  The grilled cabbage that came alongside was kind of the only vegetable we encountered after the eggplant, aside from some token garnish-esque ones that presented themselves more as ingredients.  There was kimchi and pickles offered as sides, but I consider those more condiments.  For a restaurant called Hortus, the horti are pretty M.I.A.

Finishing up, you've but one choice: a rice pudding with fresh mango, dusted with pulverized black lime.  I don't have a problem with offering but one dessert option, but if you're gonna go that route, you have to nail it.  This doesn't.  The rice is too dense, lacking any type of pudding consistency whatsoever, and while the lime dust adds a bit of intrigue, the whole dish isn't quite sweet enough to balance its tang.  Now, had they called it sticky rice, it might have gone over better, but names matter.  If you're  going to call it pudding, make it pudding.  If you're going to call yourself Hortus, throw in some flora... the Greenmarket is but a stone's throw away.

  271 5TH AVENUE (BETWEEN E 29TH & 30TH ST.)
PHONE 646-858-3784